


Knight, Queen, King

by sasha_b



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-14
Updated: 2010-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:30:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three lives, three loves, one fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knight, Queen, King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eaving](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eaving/gifts).



> Author's Notes: Not exactly what you asked for, but I hope you like it just the same! It's been a while since I wrote plain legend based fic, and I hope this is character appropriate. All feedback is loved and welcomed like chocolate. ;) (I hate summaries, so sorry for the yucky one).

The sun beat down on the young king and his knight, pulsing on their skins like a heartbeat. The horses in the paddock near them stamped and nickered and men spoke and laughed and townsfolk ran back and forth, their daily lives important and busy.

But the king and the knight only had eyes for each other, and the blades they both held.

“My lord, if you’d quit dithering – ”

“ _Sir_ Lancelot, you’d best not try and distract me with your awful sense of humor. Otherwise,” _clang_ “you may end up on the end of my broadsword.” _clangclang_

A laugh. Brown hair flopping into his eyes, the knight made a gesture that could either be conceived as conciliatory, or if one were looking closer, rude. “As you say, my liege. I am ready for what you can give me.”

Sweat and dust coated both their chests, the king’s damp curls sticking to his forehead and his neck. He wiped at the wetness dripping from the end of his nose, his hand slipping just slightly on the hilt of the aforementioned sword as he advanced –

 _oooomph_

The ground was not forgiving to either of them, the knight’s bony elbow catching the king’s ribs painfully as the men sent to surreptitiously make sure Arthur wasn’t hurt all leaned forward, breathless, wondering if they should move. Their eyes darted back and forth between the king and the knight; one coughed and put his hand on the wooden fencing that surrounded the practice ring.

Lancelot’s brown eyes widened, his head dropping towards his chest, worry filling his sharp features. “My king,” he started, apologies and a small ache that was always present when it came to Arthur rolling off his tongue. “I am – ”

“The best swordsman around,” Arthur finished, the lines that had been appearing more recently around his eyes crinkling as he accepted the hand up that his knight offered. Sound ceased as he rose, dusting his breeches off, wiping the sweat from his bare chest as he sheathed his father’s great sword. He smiled – the guardian knights breathed a sigh of relief and life surged forward. Chickens clucked and the wind gracefully blew and he and Lancelot moved to the edge of the ring, both retrieving their tunics as a few of the castle women stopped and watched the two young men dress, hiding their actions by looking through their baskets and grouping in a cluster. Lancelot wondered if they knew they resembled the damned chickens that seemed to always run amok in the yard.

He smiled broadly at one of them, and they all blushed fiercely, moving along rapidly, although one did risk a wink at him. He snorted a laugh and turned to the king, who was regarding him with a humorous light in his eyes, although Lancelot knew better.

They’d been putting off this discussion for several days now, and the knight knew they couldn’t afford to wait much longer. He wet his summer dry lips and sighed; raked a hand through his mop of wild hair. “My lord, shall we go inside?”

Arthur’s face soured, but the king was _the king_ after all, and his kingdom had to be protected. And to do that…

“Aye, my friend. I’ll need some wine for this conversation.” He jerked his head toward the men watching him. “Knights; dismissed.” Without waiting for them to obey him, he lifted a strong leg over the railing and strode through the throngs – though they parted for him – toward his stronghold. Lancelot glanced up at the sky, squinting his eyes at the clear, warm blue as the men around him scattered.

Shaking his head, he resheathed his sword violently, slamming the metal home through the baldric he slipped over his now clad chest. Arthur must know what his kingdom expected of him – what his role was and what his father, long dead, would have wanted.

And yet the knight didn’t think he’d seen the king this dejected in the years he’d known him. Was it his sense of freedom, the idea of youth being taken away? Supposedly the woman was prettier than the May flowers.

Shrugging, Lancelot followed Arthur through the crowds that did not part for _him_. Whatever Arthur’s thoughts on the matter of his impending marriage, it did not matter. Cadbury and the surrounding lands must be cared for by a king that had the possibility of providing an heir to his power. And the only way to do that was to marry.

*

Oh, the rain.

The woman sat astride her pony, the white animal shifting and blowing gently as the retainers that followed her scurried to get the canopy over her head. She regarded them balefully; what did it matter what she looked like? Arthur himself – the king – wasn’t coming to meet her. Instead, he’d sent some knight, a lackey most probably, to retrieve her and bring her to the castle. Guinevere, daughter of Leodegrance, was, to put it mildly, not happy.

However – the rain pattering softly on the canopy at last erected around her made her feel better, as it matched her mood and her grey dress. Her companion, the lady Elaine, had fussed at her about that choice of gown. It mattered not, Guinevere had said. _Aside, Elaine, he is already contracted to me. What difference does it make what I wear?_

Guinevere pushed a piece of loose hair from her eyes; the damnable red mass would never stay bound. Her mother, gods love her, had tried to tame her unruly daughter on all matters, but to no avail most of the time. Squinting at the sky, Guin blew out an impatient breath and moved with the swaying horse, thinking of her long suffering mother and just how much she could have used her now.

Rolling her lips inward, she dropped her gaze to the road ahead as the sound of approaching horses – hooves and the jangle of tack – broke through the hiss of the evening rain. _At last._

“My lady,” Elaine spoke loudly, jabbing Guinevere sharply with her elbow; the bruise from her bony appendage would surely show in the morning. “They come.”

“Indeed,” she answered dryly. The rain chose that moment to begin to sheet heavily, and Guinevere had to squint to see the knight – a single knight only! – and his squire that approached. Arthur had sent only one man? What did that say about his thoughts on his new lady? Sitting up straight, Guin tossed her messy braid over her shoulder with a haughty jerk of her head and urged her mount forward to meet the man, leaving her retinue in the dust, much to their surprise. She hid a smile at the scramble and noise they made trying to keep up with her, the canopy flapping in the wind as they rode behind her.

The knight, his face shadowed – a lot of messy hair; unkempt, she thought – pulled his destrier to a halt, the giant black snorting and arching its lovely neck. Guinevere stopped her mare, the horses opposite one another, her new escort close enough for her to touch. She sighed and raised her head after sketching him a hasty in saddle curtsey, but then stopped, mouth closing slowly as she forgot the snappy statement she was planning on using, something about the lack of worry about her safety.

The eyes stood out to her, burning through the gloom of evening, twilight and its various colors holding nothing to this man’s _deepness._  
He cocked his head and smiled, and she was lost.

“My lady,” he said, dismounting and reaching for her hand, the rain slicking his dark brown hair back from his angular face, the smooth contours of his cheekbones razor sharp and inviting – dangerous. She allowed him to pick up her hand but remained in the saddle as was proper, her courtiers finally catching up with her, struggling to put up the canopy even as the rain poured in earnest.

“Never mind that!” she snapped at them. “I am already wet; I’m sure Arthur’s men will have to accept me as I am.” The folk around her bowed hastily and stepped back, all except for Elaine, who remained at Guinevere’s back, frowning suspiciously. Guinevere ignored her.

“Arthur’s men will definitely accept you as you are, lady,” the knight said, his voice deep and melodious, the large nose prominent and dripping rain, completely undignified and yet he didn’t seem to notice. He brought her hand to his lips, brushing them, feather light and teasing, over her cold skin. She shivered – _gods, Guin, don’t be a swooning fool!_ \- and he looked up, setting her hand back on the pommel of her saddle. “You are cold,” he said, a statement, plain and bold. She shrugged her hair off her shoulder again, paying no attention to the goose bumps that marched up and down her spine. She _was_ merely chilled from the rain.

She shook her head, regally assessing him with a cool gaze, and sneezed.

He laughed as she did, even as Elaine surged forward with a cloak she draped around her lady’s shoulders. “Aye, I will admit to that, Sir…” _What was his name?_

“Lancelot, my lady Guinevere. Arthur’s most loyal servant, and yours as well now.”

Oh.

“Sir Lancelot,” Guinevere said, finally daring to meet those eyes, dancing and full of intentions she so wanted to place. “I am happy Arthur does take my safety seriously.” Her horse whinnied and his answered, the animals both clearly unhappy to be in the wet and muck. “My companion, Elaine,” she gestured to the older woman, who was still frowning, the scowl appropriate as the weather became darker and the rain threatened to drown them all.

Lancelot bowed properly to her, taking her hand as well. Guinevere dropped her gaze from his head to his foot as he greeted her servant, taking in his shining armor, the large sword he wore at his waist and the simple leather baldric that was slung casually over his chest. He had no helmet, and his hair was dripping down his neck. She examined it more closely; it surely had a curl to it. She wet her lips; a loop of hair wrapped around his left earlobe, as if caressing the bit of flesh.

“…should be ready, my lady?”

Guinevere jerked her gaze from his hair, shame flooding her face. She shouldn’t be examining this man – a common knight after all – like he was someone who could be her friend! She was to be the king of all Britain’s wife, and not the companion of a man like this. A tendril of hair swept forward into her eyes, and she pushed it back as slowly and regally as possible. “I am more than ready, Sir. I’m sure the king is waiting.”

A strange look crossed the knight’s face; he nodded to her, a melancholy creeping into those dark eyes. Or perhaps Guinevere was merely being romantic. Lancelot remounted and bowed his head to her. He scraped a long fingered hand through his wet hair, shoving it back out of his face impatiently. She could not help but smile; that gesture seemed a mirror of her own. And then she banished the expression from her smooth face – it was Arthur she was to marry, Arthur she had to get to know, and Arthur she had to spend the rest of her life with. No matter what her body said about this man, no matter what the look in his eyes said, no matter what she had felt instantly when he’d gazed at her for the first time.

“He is,” Lancelot said softly, the tone unreadable. He spoke under his breath to his squire, and the man rode back to Guinevere’s retinue, gathering them up for the ride. Turning his destrier, Lancelot stopped as he rode abreast of her. “The path is most safe to Cadbury, lady. Shall we ride together?”

She cocked a red eyebrow, the fine shape of it framing her eye with a perfect flame colored arch. Or so she’d like to think – in reality, she had a feeling she resembled a drowned rat in a frumpy grey dress riding a palfry that had seen better days. She laughed.

“I would be honored,” she answered. _No matter who you are. Lancelot._

His name was already familiar – too familiar – on her lips.

*

Bells rang, echoing in his ears. The courtyard was packed with people enjoying the mild weather and breezes, strangers he did not know, courtiers and well wishers and sycophants, and mounted men that guarded the gates. Even today – especially today – the castle should be protected. Any of his enemies might take this day to attack; a day he was distracted and busy with other things.

His marriage.

Lancelot had gripped his shoulder in support, and had smiled – warily, Arthur thought, but the other man was the only one who might tell Arthur the truth. And yet he’d said nothing about Guinevere save _the stories about her were correct, my liege._ And his eyes had held a strange expression, one that caused the pinching of the bridge of Lancelot’s nose, the lines that appeared at the corners of his eyes deep and worrying.

But Arthur let it go; he took the hand of the woman standing next to him, and lifted her ceremonial veil as the people watching cheered, the men, his knights (Lancelot included) raising their swords in salute to the new queen.

Arthur flipped Guinevere’s veil over the intricate braid of red hair – fire red – and met her gaze solidly. The first time –

The first time – the last time – the only time.

He sucked in a breath as his grey eyes met her green ones, unwanted reaction slamming into his gut and brain like a rain of icy cold sleet, reminding him oddly of a typical English winter, so different from the warm day. They both froze, hand in hand, Arthur’s fur trimmed cloak the only thing moving in the slight wind that caressed their faces, unfelt. How had this happened – he blinked, shook his head. He’d wanted his freedom, had wanted to lead his men and his country to victory without being chained to responsibility and duty.

And yet. Gods, look at her.

She leaned forward, her hair catching the sun and sparking with a hundred colors, blinding him, scalding him, turning him inside out. She brushed her lips against his, and his eyes widened – if only briefly. Raising his free hand, Arthur the king slid his fingers through the bound hair at the base of her neck and pressed his mouth to hers.

The people cheered more loudly, if that were possible. Breaking away from Guinevere, Arthur lifted their joined hands to the sky – blue shone through the puffy clouds, and birds wheeled as his people – their people – clapped and yelled their approval.

Arthur’s gaze found Lancelot’s; the other man seemed lost in thought. He did not smile at Arthur when the king did; rather, he cocked his head and allowed his longish hair to fall into his eyes, covering his expression effectively.

Arthur lowered the hands he’d raised and turned to face his new wife, the queen and perhaps, the gods willing, the mother of his heirs. That was truly what she was for, after all.

And yet – she’d kissed _him,_ and despite knowing who he was, what he wanted and what he was capable of, Arthur found himself thinking this woman was more than what she was _supposed_ to be. Maybe.

“My lady,” he said softly, his deep voice not betraying the fear he felt. Things had changed irrevocably. “I welcome you to my home and my lands. I promise to care for you as I would ask you to me.” As he spoke the words, Arthur straightened up, the gold circlet that held back his wild hair shining in a pale imitation of Guinevere’s tightly bound tresses. The sun wavered a moment, flickering into his eyes, forcing him to raise his hand in order to see her.

Sounds ceased, vision tunneled, and her face was the only thing in focus. Arthur felt the weight of Excalibur at his side, the binding of the circlet, the heaviness of his rich cloak. A breeze tickled his neck as he waited – watched – would she speak?

By all that was holy, who was this woman he was now bound to?

“My lord,” she started, but hesitated, swallowing. Could she be as nervous as he? “I will love your people as my own, and I will care for your household, now mine, with the utmost respect and care. Your reputation precedes you,” she rushed through the words, her body leaning closer to his, the words for his ears only. “I believe in your peace and your ideals…Arthur.”

A smile then, although it was crooked and worried. Arthur thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, for it matched his own.

“Then I am truly blessed,” he murmured, his cloak swirling, driving him forward, the fabric wrapping about his legs and hers. A crow cawed above them, but Arthur ignored the harsh sound, watching his new queen as she turned and greeted her subjects, the ermine of his cloak tangled about her body as he stood still next to her.

*

Lancelot’s angular face was twisted in rage, his weapon heavy and painful to hold against the ripping, tearing wall of anger that drove his actions and swung the hands that held it. Things were perfect; life at Cadbury was gorgeous and easy and Arthur’s Peace was successful and the king was beloved by all in the land.

And yet the anger that surfaced, the rages that sometimes sparked Lancelot’s brain and took him someplace _else_ came more frequently now, Arthur’s face graying as the king watched him storm from the council room, the sword at his side biting into his hands.

How could he choose? How could he love them _both?_ By the gods, he’d known Arthur since he was a green recruit, had wanted to serve the king since he’d heard the Pendragon name. And yet – he couldn’t think of a worse betrayal. The king’s own lady, and Lancelot’s queen.

What could he possibly do?

The tree was a worthy opponent, but it was no match for Lancelot’s screaming hot wrath. Ice blew with the snapping wind of British winter, but he was clad only in linen shirt and leathers – his boots old and well worn. His sword caught the sparking light of the moon as he swung it again, branches parting like soft butter before the steel.

He froze at the touch on his arm, warrior’s instinct the only thing keeping him from whipping the sword into the person that dared interrupt him.

Snowflakes were stuck in her eyelashes, and the wild hair (he could feel it against his fingers even now) blew about her face as she touched him again, this time on his cold cheek. The bones in his face were sharper with age, the beard not hiding them. He breathed in, lungs freezing, expression somewhere between agony and great joy.

“Guin,” he sighed out. “You shouldn’t be out here, lady. It’s too cold.”

“And you’re not properly clad,” she snapped back, copying his sigh with her own. “Why must you persist in this, Lancelot?” Shoving a piece of hair out of her eyes, she crossed her arms over her chest, the snow that fell gently gathering on her cloak covered shoulders. Lancelot sheathed his sword, turned his back on the destroyed tree, and regarded his queen, his lady, his problem.

“I must do something, Guin.”

“And suffer like this? Why can’t you …” she trailed off, her green eyes dropping to the white covered ground, her booted feet shuffling. “Why can’t we just love each other?”

“Because, my queen,” he answered, his words soft and yet spoken with absolute truth. “We love him as well. Mayhap more.” _Don’t make me choose which one of you to betray._

They came together as he’d known they would, the cold icing them, their bodies pressed together in a desperate search for heat, for safety, for solidity. The ruined tree Lancelot had been using as an outlet for his rage – the confusion and self hatred – cracked loudly, the last branch falling to the snow covered ground. They both ignored the sound, his hands on her waist, her fingers winding in the longish hair that he never took the time to care for.

*

“My lady?”

Guinevere started; she set down the trowel she’d been using on her herbs. Wiping sweat out of her eyes, she smeared dirt over her forehead as she sat up on her knees. Sunlight streamed into the little garden, and she smiled up at her husband, who was still and serious. Too much that way, lately.

He squatted next to her, and her gaze was soft as he fingered a piece of her hair, tucking it haphazardly behind her ear. “The flowers come in well this year.” He knelt in the dirt and settled back on his heels, regarding her with the grey stare that used to frighten and attract her. Now…she shook her head and laughed. “Arthur, since when do you pay attention to the greenery? If it isn’t a courtier or a man with a sword or a horse,” she teased, although the tone was lost quickly, quietly. They watched each other for a moment, the wind stirring Guinevere’s hair.  
“Do you think about him?”

Her eyes closed briefly. “Aye, Arthur. With every breath.” Why lie to him?

“As do I.”

Now _that_ surprised her. Arthur had known Lancelot for longer than she; she often wondered, due to their behavior and Lancelot’s great anger and sadness, if they had been more than king and knight. But it never mattered – Lancelot was gone. Gone from both of them. For how long, she had no idea. His hands, on her waist, in her hair, his lips on hers, his voice in her ear, his body wrapped around hers, his queen, her champion.

She shook her head. “Arthur – ”

“Guin, there is nothing to say,” he bit off, his words bitter and cold, so unlike the summer day. “I have thought of sending men to look for him, but how can I remain who I am, how can we remain who we are, if I do that?” He stood, dusting off his knees, his eyes squinting and narrowed as she rose, joining him. They both crossed their arms, perfect imitations, perfectly separate.

Her immediate reaction was _oh gods, Arthur, please_ but Guin kept her mouth closed; the dutiful wife, the hidden lover. She looked over at Arthur, the man she married – did she still love him? Did his Peace, his hard fought war for Britain, matter to her anymore?

It was the only thing that mattered, really. She had loved him once, so long ago, and yet looking at him now, seeing his bearded face, the grey that shot through his hair, the wrinkles that creased the sides of his eyes, the troubled way his mouth twisted, she wondered if she ever had really known him.

Did she ever really know _Lancelot_ , aside from his personality as her knight, her husband’s best defender, her lover and her companion? What did he like, where did he go when the rages came? Where was he now? She turned to face Arthur, thinking to ask him, no matter if it hurt him -

“I wonder if he would go north, to the coast,” Arthur mused aloud, not turning to see her or her expression that darkened, shadows crossing them both. A crow screamed as it circled over her garden, Guinevere focusing only on Arthur.

He didn’t know either.

Guinevere felt her heart slow, heard the wind rush past her ears, saw Arthur’s lips move as he spoke out loud to himself. He didn’t know either! He’d been close to Lancelot for almost a decade, and yet he couldn’t even imagine where his friend, his knight and their best everything, would have gone. She wondered if it was the worst thing for him or the best.

She took her husband by the crook of his arm, and led him from the garden, his mouth closing as he internalized his thoughts and worries. The lines etched into the craggy skin deepened as they walked, townsfolk and courtiers and knights following them, giving a respectful distance to the royal couple. Guinevere allowed her hand to slide down Arthur’s arm, grasping his fingers.

He looked at her at last, and she curled her hand into his, biting her lip.

*

“Morgana, for the love of God.”

The red cape his sister – half sister, Arthur reminded himself, not glancing in the direction of her son – wore swirled around her feet like a flow of hot blood. The king stood his ground, his graying hair blending with the silver circlet he wore, his black clothing simple and direct. Morgana on the other hand…well, everything with her was dramatic.

He did not like to deal with her. He did not like to face his folly, his sin, directly in the face. Here she was, though, forcing him to look her in the eye, to see the blackness of her son’s hair, to see the grey eyes, just like his own. He shuddered, but crossed his arms and did not rise from the throne that was set upon the dais.

“You must acknowledge him, Arthur. He is the only legitimate heir you have, the only one legitimate to the Pendragon name. Like it or not, he is your only choice.” Her words dripped off her tongue like she was attempting to draw flies to her fingers, but Arthur knew her better. Knew her speech, pretty as it was, was meant to cut, to draw blood as red as her clothing. _The only one legitimate._ Arthur rubbed his bearded chin; Guinevere, at his side, remained uncharacteristically silent. Her once bright hair, grayed as his was, tightly bound, wound to her head, not a bit out of place. Her clothing perfect and regal, her hands folded in her lap, the sewing she’d been working on ignored. That was the only sign she was paying attention to the discussion.

He knew she was biting at her tongue, desperate to speak, to say something in his defense – or perhaps in hers.

He knew how she felt about –

“Arthur. Time is running out. You know my wishes and you know the consequences. What will it be, brother dear?” Her black hair rippled down her back as Morgana approached him, her face smooth and calm, the weather that lashed the windows outside a weird opposite of her stillness. Arthur hated her in that moment, hated her more than he’d hated anyone or anything in his life.

He shifted at last, leaning forward to answer her, opening his mouth, thinking of his life at Cadbury and the Peace he’d so desperately fought for. The things he’d sacrificed to keep it – his sanity at some moments. His freedom, his privacy. His best friend, his best knight.

His wife.

He shut his mouth. “My sister, though I am loathe to admit it, you are right about one thing.” He stood, advancing down the steps that lead to the dais, his still slender but strong body belying the anger that was building. No one took advantage of Arthur Pendragon. No one did it and lived.

He laughed, a bitter broken sound that echoed throughout the chamber, the rain slamming against the glass, the flags that dotted the castle lashing in violence with the wind. What a lie he told himself.

“Mordred, your son,” he emphasized the possessive, “is the only legitimate heir to my throne.” She smiled, an oily curling of the corners of her lips, her tongue darting out in anticipation.

“And yet, you are also wrong, for he is _not_ the only choice.”

“What do you – ”

Guinevere sat up; Arthur could feel her motions behind him. The torches on the walls flickered and the smoke from the braziers was almost choking, but still he continued. “I am king, Morgana. I can decide, and I can speak the truth of what I wish.” He gripped the hilt of Excalibur, which rested at his hip, the powerful sword swinging with his steps. He felt the energy from it, the mere touch of the thing providing him with the strength he needed to say the next words. He might be damning himself; he might be damning all Britain.

But he would not do what she wanted.

“I name my nephew Gawaine my heir.”

A peal of laughter shook Morgana’s slight frame. She met Arthur on the steps; although his great height far outdistanced her own, she seemed a giant in the eyes of the other watching her. “Very well, _king_ Artos Rex. Then you shall have war.”

Arthur had never believed in magic, but _something_ crossed his vision as she raised her hands, waving them in front of her face, the long fingers bent and broken looking, eclipsing his view. A weird sound rang out through the building – bells, chimes, wind? – and when he lowered the fingers he’d raised to instinctively protect himself, she and the boy were gone.

The rain continued to beat at the walls of the stronghold. Guinevere stood and came to him, not touching him, merely standing still, her graying hair picking up the lights from the torches, the bound curls sparking with color that had long faded. He risked a glance at her; her normally placid face was suffused with red, the perfect hair starting to poke free of its braid.

“You’ll have to send for him, now.”

She didn’t mean Gawaine, who was part of Arthur’s permanent retinue and who was currently out in the field.

“I know.”

“Will he come?”

Arthur wished he knew. He needed men, fighting men, to withstand whatever war Morgana would bring about to sit her son – his son – on the throne. And he knew only one that was the very best. One that he hadn’t seen in too long, ages long, one that he missed with every beat of his heart every day. And yet.

“Yes.”

He lied again, and turned from her to walk down the rest of the steps, to write the letter that might secure his kingdom and his life.

*

The men amassed on the field at Camlann were mounted in the center, infantry flanking the large war horses on either side. The sun was bright and strong and it beat down on the men, baking them inside their armor and cooking their skin as they shifted, waiting for Arthur, waiting for Lancelot, waiting for the men they followed with no questions.

Their king stood inside the doorway that lead to his council room, his armor shining, his cloak red and freshly pressed, his helm under his arm as he watched the courtyard and the men that ran to and fro as they readied the castle for siege. A hand on his arm made him turn.

“We will prevail, my lord.”

Lancelot’s face was slightly lined and his hair was beginning to show silver strands _at last he shows humanity!_ as Arthur’s had for many years. The king smiled tightly at his knight – his man, his loyal friend after all – and canted his head to the right as he crossed his mailed arms over his chest. His back twinged and he laughed hollowly. “Are you a magician to be so sure, Lance?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled, but the smile did not go so far. “You haven’t called me that in a long time, Artos.” He touched the hilt of his blade, the broadsword slung across his chest, the old baldric comfortable and worn. The blue favor wrapped around the leather was faded and almost tearing, but when Lancelot rubbed his fingers across it, he remembered the warmth of a spring day and the flowers in Guin’s hair and the softness of her green eyes, the eyes that stared at him with longing and sorrow. Eyes that were downcast and afraid to look into his, now.

Had Arthur turned from him, too? If that were so, why had the king asked for his help in this, this folly, this ridiculous battle that Arthur shouldn’t have to fight in the first place? His son – gods, his and Morgana’s; Lancelot still couldn’t wrap his brain around that – his son that wanted the throne despite Arthur wanting nothing to do with him.

A mistake the king had made, one that neither Lancelot nor Guinevere could say anything to him about. A gross mistake, a sin that could not be erased –

Blinking, Lancelot shoved the thought from his head. He had committed sin himself, a sin that had taken him from the life that he loved, the family he’d made, and the friends he was devoted to. He could not judge the king. He would be the last to do so. Thus, he was here, to lead his men in battle against Arthur’s sister and the forces that would unseat his friend and set her bastard son on the throne.

He would do what he could for Arthur, who’d done so much for him.

“My lord! The men are looking for you!” a man carrying the Pendragon standard ran up to Arthur and Lancelot, sketching a bow. “You must come to the field.” He darted off before Arthur could say anything in response. He sighed and drew Excalibur, stepped forward into the yard, and gestured to Lancelot without looking back.

“You were my best and brightest, Lancelot,” he murmured. “You were a part of us, and always will be. Will you come, now, of free will and heart, to support me one more time?” He tilted his head slightly, finally, and watched Lancelot out of the corner of his right eye. The wind picked up his hair, blowing the strands in a haphazard way that gave him a look of wildness he’d lost somewhere along the way. Through the years of worry and heartache and such great joy and terror Arthur was surprised he was still standing.

The other man drew his own blade, and took the few steps to Arthur’s side, where he’d belonged since they’d first met, the second they’d been thrown together.

“Always of free will, my lord. My king, my friend,” Lancelot answered, his voice strong and sure. “Although my heart is no longer mine to give.”

Arthur gave a curt nod. “It is the same with mine.”

They met each other’s eyes briefly, quickly and with a conviction that hid the nervous twisting of Lancelot’s stomach. He touched the flat of his blade to Excalibur, and the two weapons caught the glare of the sun, reflecting like the fire of heaven for one succinct moment.

If only they were so sure of their success.

The woman that stood on the battlements tightened her grip on her cloak; the Pendragon red her color by right and by duty. She wondered for a moment what they were saying to each other, but did it matter really? Lancelot had come home, to stand beside Arthur for the final fight (she was more certain of that than of anything in her life) as he should. Her husband and her lover.

And she the catalyst that caught their tinder alight.

What a ridiculous notion. And yet she couldn’t help but think it, couldn’t help but wonder what would have been should she have only met Arthur, or should she have only met Lancelot. What would have happened; would she have experienced the love she had, the joy, the pain, the …  
Oh, gods. She watched them walk to their horses, their shoulders touching until they mounted, and she closed her mind to the possibility of one of them dying and what she would do when that happened. Raising her head, Guinevere tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and stared at the sun until her husband and his knight disappeared from her view.

*

Mordred sat astride a black stallion, his heart frozen, and his brain cold and shuttered as he’d been taught. The rage he normally felt tightly controlled, the multitude of voices that filled his mind silent. His mother had been nowhere to be found that morning, a fact that did not surprise him. He did not care. The only thing he cared about was getting what was due him from the father who’d hated him the second he’d clapped eyes on him.

He slammed his visor down over his eyes, the only sign of emotion he’d shown all day. Turning to his captains, he gave the signal and gigged his horse forward onto the field, green and lovely and lush and full of men that would trample it to dust and blood within a heartbeat.

*

The field was green and lovely and lush and Arthur rode out onto it, Excalibur raised high, red cloak streaming, men at his back and Lancelot at his side. Visions of the life he’d led and the one he could have had warred in his mind, and for one moment the fear he’d been fighting off for several days threatened to choke him and eat away his being.

And then Camlann, simple and elegant, bursting with his men and his people filled his sight and he dismounted, striding onto the bright grass.  
Arthur Pendragon stepped onto the field at Camlann, Excalibur raised, steady righteousness in his eyes –

~


End file.
